Accompanied by a strangled roar and a couple of triumphant boos, in a flash of black, white and red bow tie Not Half Bad Frank came skidding across the stage on his bum at about ninety miles an hour, propelled by the force of an unseen but definitely not unheard assailant. His trajectory took him right past Norman and directly toward the edge of the stage and the front row of the audience. Us.

Everything went into slow motion and I felt my jaw actually unhinge and drop open as the Frank became airborne. I had a microsecond of pin-sharp focus and got a brilliant view of the broken capillaries in the whites of his eyes before he face-planted squarely into the laps of Kathy, Tony and me, ricocheting a shiny black brogue off Leonard’s cheek on the way through.

There was a lot of yelping and writhing as he desperately tried to regain a shred of dignity and balance, with very little hope of either. But even with all the commotion and at least a third of a full-size man on my lap, I could still hear Norman’s voice. And although I couldn’t make out the words, and the voice was definitely shaky, I knew he wasn’t finished.

I gave the Frank an almighty shove and felt my hand connect with a spongy body part, maybe a nose, perhaps an eye socket, I’ll never know. He went crashing the rest of the way to the floor and Norman was in my sights again.

He’d abandoned the microphone and was staring out beyond the audience to an invisible focus point, just like I’d heard Big Al tell him in his postperformance pep talk. But he was still going. The knights of Armageddon could have marched in with an arsenal of high-powered flamethrowers and they wouldn’t have broken his stride. It didn’t matter, though, because nobody was listening to my son anymore except me.

Bad Frank appeared on the edge of the stage, seemingly intent on finishing the job he’d started, still shouting abuse but hampered considerably by the registration woman, who was practically astride him in her determination to hold him back. Tony and Kathy, good in an emergency of course (of course), began helping the other dazed and confused Frank to his feet, brushing him off and offering some comforting words. But Not Half Bad Frank was past caring. He’d well and truly conceded defeat, his lovely slicked-back forelock of hair now sticking up on end and skewed to a dangerous tilt, making him look less Frank Sinatra and more Frank Zappa.

I’m not sure how long it was before I clocked that Norman had finally stopped. I looked past the mess of people fussing around their respective Franks and there he was. Standing still and now silent on the stage, the sleeves of his velvet jacket hanging way too far past his hands. A slip of a boy trying to hold up a weight that was never meant for him. I’ve already hung around too long.